the poems of what matters most is how well you walk through the fire were written between 1970 and 1990 and are part of an archive that Charles Bukowski left to be published after his death.

click here if you want to read the spanish translation of the poem

image

he sits in the chair across from me.

"you look healthy," he says in a voice that is

almost disappointed.

"I've given up beer and I drink only

3 bottles of white German wine each night,"

I tell him.

"are you going to let your readers know

you've reformed?" he

asks. he walks to the refrigerator and opens

the door. "all these vitamins!"

"thiamine-hcl," I say, "b-2, choline, b-6, folic

acid, zinc, e, b-12, niacin, calcium magnesium,

a-e complex, papa... and 3 bottles of white

German wine each night."

"what's this stuff in the jars on the sink?" he

asks.

"herbs," I tell him, "goldenseal, sweet basil, alfalfa

mind, mu, lemongrass, rose hips, papaya, gotu kola, clover,

comfrey, fenugreek, sassafras and chamomile... and I drink only

spring water, mineral water and my 3 bottles of white German

wine."

"are you going to tell your readers

about all this?"

he asks again.

"should I tell them?" I ask.

"should I tell them that I no longer

eat anything that walks on

4 legs?"

"that's what I mean," he says. "people think you are a

tough guy!"

"oh?" I say.

"and what about your image?" he asks. "people don't expect

you to live like this."

"I know," I say, "I've lost my beer-gut. I've come down

from a size 44 to a size 38, and I've lost 31 pounds."

"I mean," he continues, "we all thought you were a man

walking carelessly and bravely to his death, foolishly but

with style, like Don Quixote and the windmills... all that."

"we just won't tell anybody," I answer, "and maybe

we can save my

image or at least prolong it."

"you'll be turning to God next," he says.

"my god," I say, "is those 3 bottles of white German wine."

"I'm disappointed in you," he says.

"I still fuck," I reply, "and I still play the horses and I

go to the boxing matches and I still love my daughter

and I even love my present girlfriend. not that much has

changed."

"all right," he says, "we'll keep it quiet.

can you give me a ride back to my place?

my car is in the shop."

"all right," I say, "I also still drive my car."

I lock the door and we walk up the street to where

I'm parked now.

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